


So Tragic I Run Back To You

by lunasenzanotte



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Criminals, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Crimes & Criminals, Denmark National Team, M/M, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-27
Updated: 2014-09-27
Packaged: 2018-02-18 23:35:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2366117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunasenzanotte/pseuds/lunasenzanotte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daniel is a cynical loner who traffics in stolen art, Steven is a famous footballer, Simon is a prostitute. Though maybe none of them are who they seem to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	So Tragic I Run Back To You

**Author's Note:**

> This was my work for the futbal-minibang at livejournal. [Here](http://futbal-minibang.livejournal.com/12604.html) you can read it and also listen to the wonderful fanmix by kfunk22.

Daniel chooses him because he doesn't look like a regular prostitute. He's probably really fucked up in the head, searching for a prostitute that doesn't look like one, but most things Daniel does don't make sense anyway. (His shrink also thinks he's fucked up in the head. Daniel isn’t sure how he came to that conclusion since, during the ten or so sessions they've had, he’s only sat in silence. But the shrink had to write something in that report, Daniel figures.)

He motions for him to get in the car and the boy happily complies. In the middle of January, there are certainly better places to be at 11 p.m. than the streets of Copenhagen.

The boy isn’t wearing the typical tacky attire associated with those in his profession, and if he hadn’t been standing there, Daniel would have him for a regular, respectable citizen. A college student, maybe. In the sickening light above the dashboard, he looks so young he could even pass for a high school student. Even if he is, Daniel doesn't mind. As long as he's legal, Daniel doesn't care if it’s the night before his A-levels. 

He also doesn’t attempt any conversation, dirty or otherwise. Daniel likes people who make business without trying to make smalltalk. No matter what some fools try to pretend, this is business in its purest form.

“Where are we going?” the boy asks.

Daniel thinks. He certainly doesn't want his cock to freeze off somewhere in a dark alley, and he's not a fan of car sex either because  _come on_. He spends most of his life on the road, and despite popular belief, having sex in a car is damn uncomfortable and idiotic.

“My place?” he offers.

Some prostitutes wouldn't like that. They're careful, they prefer to stay outside or go to little hotels where they’re known. To think that it's safer than going to someone's house is complete bollocks, Daniel thinks, but it's their business. The boy doesn't object, though.

“Fine,” he says.

He doesn't say anything more during the ride. Daniel likes it.

*

Daniel switches on the lights. His apartment is rather small, furnished mostly with things from IKEA. Not because he can't afford anything better, but because he doesn't spend much time here. The only luxury is a big black leather sofa. Daniel has a thing for leather sofas. His shrink would certainly have something to say about it — had he known about it.

The boy takes off his jacket and follows Daniel into the living room. There is not the fake self-confidence in his movement that Daniel has observed in others of his kind. He is slightly nervous and lets it show. It's a good thing. At least, it shows that he has a brain inside his head. Daniel knows some prostitutes who are so damn sure nothing bad can happen to them. Not that Daniel is planning on killing the boy. But he could.

“So what do you want?” the boy asks.

Straight to business. Daniel likes it. He looks at him, takes him in, tries to figure out what he feels like doing. He never goes to find someone for a specific purpose. He decides depending on who he’s found. He plops down on the leather sofa, so rarely used it still feels like new and the cushions barely sink under his weight.

“Blow me,” he says.

He's too lazy to fuck tonight and too tired to come up with something more elaborate, even though he likes to think of himself as of someone who doesn't just fuck out of boredom or pure lust. In a way, fucking is an art for Daniel. “Do it right or don't do it at all” is one of his long-held beliefs. There's only one thing worse than bad poetry, and that’s bad sex.

The boy gets on his knees and unbuttons Daniel's jeans without looking up at him. His hand is still a bit cold and feels strangely foreign on Daniel's cock. When the boy's mouth closes around him, Daniel spreads his arms out along the back of the sofa and throws his head back, like he's just relaxing after a long day. He actually is. 

He lets the boy do his thing. After all, it fits his theory of the art of fucking — you don't tell the artist what to do if you want an original piece. And this boy is a fucking artist, Daniel would say. He may not look it, but he sucks cock like a fucking maestro. He's the first one in ages to draw an "oh, fuck" from Daniel, and that is some achievement. On a sudden impulse, Daniel puts a hand on the back of the boy’s head and tangles his fingers in the longish blonde strands. Not letting Daniel disturb him from his actions, the boy presses his tongue against just the right spot. It draws another "oh, fuck" from Daniel, which would rocket him to the top of Daniel's chart, if he actually kept one. Instinctively, he pulls on the boy's hair and for the first time draws a small whimper out of him. It’s just the thing Daniel needs to send him over the edge, the final stroke of the brush that completes the masterpiece.

The boy wipes his mouth and looks up to Daniel for the first time, like a child expecting to be praised for satisfying the teacher's demands. Daniel isn't the kind of person who pats others on the shoulder anytime they satisfy his demands, though. He expects that as a fucking standard.

He zips up his pants and reaches for his wallet. He doesn't ask for the tax, he knows it well enough and knows how much he will or will not pay. He pulls out the money and hands it to the boy.

“Is that alright?” he asks.

The boy nods and tucks the cash into his jacket pocket. Typically, that signals the end of the transaction for Daniel. He's quite sure they can find the door and he always pays enough for them to be able to take a taxi. But something compels him otherwise this time. 

“Hey!” he calls when the boy is almost out the door. “What's your name?”

The boy gives him a puzzled look. “Why?”

“In case I want you again. So that I know who to ask for.”

The boy nods slowly, like he's considering whether he wants to see Daniel again.

“Simon,” he says quietly, and then the door slips closed behind him.

*

Daniel takes a quick shower, then sits back on his sofa with his laptop. He’s checking his e-mails when his phone rings. It's high time. He answers the phone with the traditional growl he uses instead of “hello,” mainly when he's not in the mood.

“Daniel?” a voice sounds from the phone.

“Yeah. You have it?”

“Yeah, I do. No idea what anyone is going to do with it, though. They’ll be looking for it everywhere.”

“That's not your business. I have a rich guy in London who wants it. What he does with it doesn't concern us anymore.”

“OK. So I'll get it to you in an hour. The usual place?”

“Yeah, I'll be there. And be careful with it. It's a fucking Rembrandt.”

*

The deal in London goes well. Daniel’s actually never had a major problem since he started doing this. The buyers are always obnoxiously rich, obsessed with things that are unique and not ready to hear that their desires are impossible to fulfill. Actually, they’re rather like Daniel.

Daniel gets them whatever they feel like having, with the simple condition that they should never ask how he came by it. Daniel has it all covered. Bank accounts in the Cayman Islands, accomplices who don't know more than his first name, a car that could pass the most stringent police checkpoint. His teachers always used to say he had the potential to do big things. And that's exactly what he does. He’s just never felt like doing  _good_  big things.

Back in Copenhagen, he falls back into his routine. He sits in his apartment with the leather sofa and empty fridge, sometimes goes out to dinner on his own because the people he knows in the city aren't the kind he wants to spend time with. He reads, watches TV. He also visits his shrink, sitting there in silence before leaving with a bottle of sleeping pills because it's the only thing the shrink can prescribe for him.

He goes back to that alley several times but he's never lucky enough to find the boy there. When he finally decides to ask about him, it takes quite a few conversations until he finds a certain Christian who at least knows who Simon is. He tells Daniel that the boy doesn't come every night. This intrigues Daniel, he always sees the same whores selling their bodies to pay rent. That Simon can afford not to come every night is unusual and makes Daniel want to know the reason. He doesn't like unsolved mysteries.

In the meanwhile, he moves a Cézanne to a buyer in Switzerland, even though he feels almost physically sick having it in his car. He doesn't understand why anyone would pay any money for Cézanne. Daniel hates him.

Then, one night, a stroke of luck. He doesn’t have anything planned for the night and drives by the alley and catches sight of the boy. He pulls to a hasty stop, aware that he might not see the boy for weeks again if what that Christian told him is true. He stops the car and waits for Simon to get in.

“You,” Simon states warily.

“Me,” Daniel smirks.

“Christian told me you were asking about me.”

Maybe it's the right moment to ask all those burning questions he has about the young man but Daniel doesn't want to find out the answers like that. He’d rather the mystery remain between them for a while. Daniel doesn't like easily solved mysteries either.

*

The apartment is still the same, empty, cold and as impersonal as a hotel room. Daniel almost feels like doing the little tour he does in every hotel room — check the fridge and the minibar, turn on the taps and open the wardrobes — but then he remembers that he's actually home.

Simon watches him with the same wariness as the first time. Daniel knows he's not an easy person to be with. Sometimes he drives even his shrink crazy, and that probably says everything. 

“So?” Simon asks.

“So.”

Daniel sits on the sofa and pulls him onto his lap. He doesn't feel like talking, doesn't know if he even feels like fucking. Maybe he just doesn't feel like being alone. He runs his hands over Simon's body, admires him like a masterpiece. He's not too far from one, nearly perfect with just the right ratio of imperfect to be original. Right between Giorgione‘s  _Venus_  and Titian’s. 

“Do you kiss?” Daniel asks.

“Do you?” Simon replies with a question. 

His response draws a chuckle from Daniel. “When it’s the right situation and the right person...”

Simon leans closer, which Daniel translates as  _if you want to kiss me, you can._  He wants to. He plunges his hands into Simon’s almost platinum hair, like he wants to keep him in place. But Simon isn’t actually going anywhere. The kiss is open-mouthed and slow; it’s not the kind of kiss that fills your head with lust but more like the kind that makes you melt in the other person’s arms. As they break away from each other, Simon smiles shyly. Daniel doesn’t know why and he probably wouldn’t understand anyway.

His teeth are small, almost like a child’s. A line of nearly perfect string of white pearls.

“What are you looking at?” Simon asks.

“Your teeth.”

Simon laughs, genuinely laughs, gripping the front of Daniel’s shirt and hiding his face against Daniel’s shoulder.

“You’re weird.”

Daniel pulls him up and kisses him again, just to see if it will feel the same as the first time. It does.

“Is that all you want to do?” Simon asks.

“No.”

“So what do you want to do?”

He unzips his black jacket and pulls his plain white T-shirt over his head, as if Daniel needs some encouragement. It’s a hell of an encouragement, actually.

“Any kinks? Or are you just vanilla?” 

The way he asks is strange, like a kid who’s finally worked up the nerve to say a bad word but is still afraid his parents might overhear him.

“Far from it,” Daniel says, and it sounds like a promise. 

Simon slides off Daniel’s lap and onto the sofa, sort of tucks himself under Daniel, and the leather screeches in its characteristic way. 

“So, how should we start?”

Daniel pulls his shirt over his head, letting it fall on the floor next to the sofa. He leans closer, the skin-to-skin contact almost shocking him, almost like he’d forgotten how it felt. He traces the constellation of birthmarks on Simon’s neck with his tongue.

“For a start, I have thing for leather sofas.”

“I kind of noticed,” Simon grins and Daniel kisses him again.

*

No matter what time Daniel gets up, his brain wakes up at eleven. That’s why around 8 a.m., when the postman rings and forces him out of bed because of some registered letter, he’s too tired to think but not enough to get back to bed.

He opens the fridge and takes out a bottle of water, one of the few things he actually keeps in there, and closes the fridge again. It registers in his brain only a few seconds later and he looks back at the door of the fridge. Among the overdue bills and scattered post-it notes sits a piece of paper with a telephone number written in black ink, attached to the door with what he highly suspects is chewing gum.

Daniel smirks and leaves the number on the fridge.

*

Steven Gerrard was many things for Daniel. First, he was someone whose name he knew from the newspapers and TV he’d watched intermittently — at a gas station where he went to have a cup of terrible coffee and stale baguette, at the bar when a football match was on.

Back then, he was a customer, nothing more. Daniel didn’t care if his client was a rich businessman, the American president or an international footballer. But then Steven contacted him again and again, and Daniel reclassified him as a regular customer. As time went by, he even dared to start calling him a friend.

After the night they got drunk together because there were police maneuvers on the border and it wasn’t safe for Daniel to head back, they became what people liked to call  _friends with benefits_. Daniel preferred the term  _occasional lovers_. 

Now, Steven opens a catalogue and throws it on to the table while he goes to get something to drink. Daniel glances at the painting, then closes the catalogue, his finger marking the page.

“Ah, it’s going to be in Copenhagen,” he says. 

“Right under your nose,” Steven smirks and puts two glasses on the table.

“You need to get yourself something pretty to forget about the disaster, huh?” Daniel smirks.

“Says the one whose country didn’t even qualify,” Steven scoffs.

Daniel isn’t offended. He doesn’t care greatly about football. Compared to art, it’s a primitive source of entertainment. Easy to consume, but not really enriching.

“Well, I’ll go have a look at it,” he says. “It shouldn’t be difficult. I know the gallery in Copenhagen, their security isn’t really the best.”

“Cheers to that,” Steven smiles. 

Daniel nods and downs his glass. He doesn’t think he’ll have to drive tonight again.

*

It’s a strange idea that comes to Daniel in a strange moment, when he’s unpacking his luggage and pulls out the catalogue. He walks into the kitchen, pours hot water over three spoons of instant coffee and his eyes fall on the number on the fridge. He runs his fingers over the smooth surface of the glossy paper the catalogue is printed on. 

He pulls out his phone and dials the number.

The next day he meets Simon, for the first time by day, for the first time elsewhere than in that alley. His hair has been trimmed, reaching just under his ears. He’s wearing a white T-shirt with some picture on it that Daniel doesn’t bother to inspect closer. In the daylight, he doesn’t look so awfully young. Daniel realizes that he must be only a few years younger than he is. 

“Where are we going?” he asks.

“You'll see,” Daniel smirks.

For once, he wants to be the one that has a surprise in his sleeve.

*

The air in the hall is cold and it feels like a slap in the face after the heat outside. It’s something they do to protect the paintings; the air has to have the right humidity and all, it’s one of the things he had to learn to be really good at what he does. He isn’t a thug who cuts the canvas out of the frame, throws it in the trunk or touches it out with his bare hands. He cares about money, yes, but he also loves and understands art.

They stop in front of a painting and Daniel takes a tiny step back and tilts his head to look at it from just the right angle. Simon faces the painting head on, looks at it from top to bottom and scratches his head.

“What was he on?” he asks.

“What?” Daniel frowns.

“What drugs did he take before he painted this?”

Daniel runs a hand over his face. Simon laughs, flashing an increasingly familiar grin that bares not just the line of his teeth but his gums as well. 

“Do I piss you off?” he asks with an innocent look.

“Terribly,” Daniel nods. 

Simon looks at the painting again, like he wants to please Daniel — or at least make up for his previous question.

“How much does it cost?” 

“Um, I don’t know exactly,” Daniel says. “But millions.”

“Millions? Someone would pay millions for this?” Simon looks at Daniel. “I can paint this for you when you get me drunk enough!”

Daniel pulls him away after that and goes to find a more classical piece.

*

“You know what is the biggest tragedy?” Daniel asks when they are having coffee in the little café that belongs to the gallery.

“What?”

“That the most expensive painting in the world is by Cézanne.”

“Cézanne painted apples, didn’t he?”

“Oh, look at the expert!” Daniel laughs.

“Well, I did go to school.”

“What else did they teach you about art at school?”

“The same they taught you, eh?”

“Probably not. I went to school in England.”

“Um, let’s see...” Simon furrows his brows and sips on the coffee. “Da Vinci painted Mona Lisa, and then that girl with a ferret or what...”

Daniel smiles involuntarily. Simon obviously means the  _Lady with an Ermine_ , but the experts actually concluded that the ermine was more likely an albino ferret. 

“Ah, and then... there was the Dutch guy who painted the girl with the pearl earring. We went to see that movie at school. It was complete rubbish.”

Daniel cringes, even though Simon is probably right about the movie. He is convinced that people should be told more about Vermeer before being shown a movie where the main interest is the blonde actress and not the use of colors.

“And of course Picasso. Like people have eyes on their asses and stuff like that.”

After that, Daniel is deeply concerned about the Danish school system.

*

The experience is so unique that Daniel repeats it again and again. Of course, they always end up fucking in his apartment, but sharing a meal, taking a walk with someone, talking to someone about things other than business feels strangely normal and _good_. The next time he visits his shrink, he actually feels compelled to speak, to share, to open up. Daniel‘s not sure if he likes it.

“It’s almost like we’re dating,” Simon laughs when the door of the apartment closes behind them one evening.

“Does it bother you?”

“Me? No. I just thought  _you_  don’t look like the dating type.”

Daniel smirks. He sits on the leather sofa, notices that the cushions are finally starting to give in, to remember the weight of him, of  _them_.

“That... Christian... he told me you didn’t come every night.”

Simon raises his brows.

“And?”

“That’s unusual. Typically, if you have a rent to pay, you have to do that every night.”

“Who told you I have to do it to pay the rent?”

“Then why do you have to do it?”

“Maybe I don’t have to. Maybe I  _want_  to.”

Daniel asks no further questions. There are things he doesn’t need to know.

His phone rings when he’s smoking his second cigarette, one arm wrapped around Simon, the other tapping the embers into a stylish ashtray that is actually one of the most expensive things in Daniel’s apartment. He groans and gets up to answer the phone in the next room. 

“Sorry. Gotta go,” he says when he comes back, picking his jeans up off the floor. 

Simon turns his head towards him lazily.

“Why?”

“Business.”

“What business?”

“What?” Daniel frowns as he tries to piece together an outfit from the articles of clothing scattered around the room.

“I mean, what do you do?”

“Selling things,” Daniel says with a wink. 

“What, is that supposed to mean we’re colleagues?” Simon laughs, grabbing Daniel’s jacket off the floor and throwing it at him. “I’m not a thing, you motherfucking—”

Hearing him talk like that turns Daniel on almost to the point of undressing himself again and forgetting about his business but he holds back. He’s professional and work still ranks higher than personal affairs on his list of priorities. 

“Let’s have this talk next time,” he says finally.

*

He waits at the usual spot, glancing at the green digits of the dashboard clock. His partner is already fifteen minutes late. Not that it hasn’t happened before, but Daniel has a bad feeling this time.

He waits five more minutes. Then he drives away, pulls off at the nearest gas station and orders some coffee. When it’s ready, he takes the paper cup and sits at the table furthest from the counter.

He pulls out the phone he uses only for business and switches it on. No missed calls. He normally doesn’t call his partners, always lets them call first, but this is a different situation. He dials the number and waits. Eventually, he’s directed to voicemail.

Daniel switches the phone off again and pulls out his other one. He opens the internet. The breaking news make him almost drop the phone. 

He taps on the headline but doesn’t read the article, just stares at the dark picture of the National Gallery of Copenhagen surrounded by police. He leaves his coffee untouched on the table, gets in the car and drives back to his apartment.

*

He doesn’t call Steven because he doesn’t have to. Without a doubt, the news has already reached him. Daniel will lay low for some time. Like a drug addict finds a new dealer, an art addict can find a new one too.

Daniel suddenly realizes that he wouldn’t mind never seeing Steven again. There is no longer anything he needs from him.

He finds himself in an unusual situation. Daniel’s never had a job go belly up before and he keeps wracking his brain to find out what went wrong. He was as careful as ever and his partner was no newbie. 

He decides to leave the country for some time. He needs to calm down, think about what he’s going to do next. And, if his partner should talk, despite how careful Daniel’s been, it will be better not to cross any police if he can avoid it.

*

His bags are packed, waiting in the hallway, when Simon walks in. He looks at them and raises his brows.

“Leaving?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Daniel nods.

“Doesn’t look like holiday.”

“No.”

“And your business trips also looked different.”

Daniel sighs.

“Well, let’s say I need to get out for a while.”

“Why is that?”

Daniel doesn’t really know how to explain it without giving himself away or sounding hysterical.

And then Simon takes a step closer and looks Daniel in the eyes.

“Isn’t it because of that failed robbery in the National Gallery?”

Daniel gasps. “How do you know...”

Then the realization sinks in and his heart drops. 

“You're a cop.”

Simon looks at him like a father whose child just found out Santa wasn't real.

“I'm sorry.”

Daniel lets out a short chuckle that sounds like a dog's bark.

“Sorry? You're fucking  _sorry_?”

Suddenly, he remembers all the red flags he’d been content to ignore. Remembers how sometimes he would come out of the shower and find his phone or laptop on the table at a slightly different angle than he’d left it. Remembers all the questions that seemed so innocent at the time. Remembers all the phone calls he let Simon overhear and shouldn’t have. He’s pretty sure there is a bug somewhere in the apartment too, maybe something is in his car.

He hits Simon before he even thinks about it. He can't think, he hates him, hates him, hates him... Or maybe he just hates himself for being such stupid fucker. Then he jumps for the drawer in the corner of the hallway and pulls out the gun he keeps there just in case.

If this isn’t the case, he doesn’t know what is.

“Don't do it.”

“Shut the fuck up. On your knees.”

Simon sinks to his knees and raises his hands, still not scared enough for Daniel's liking. Like he's more concerned for Daniel than for his own life. Daniel thinks maybe you need to be that fucked up to become a cop.

“You're only gonna make it worse, Daniel,” he says quietly.

“Worse? How the hell can I make it worse?”

“Trafficking stolen art is one thing, killing someone is another.”

“Killing a cop.”

“Yes.”

“Fuck you.”

His hand wavers a bit. He's no fucking murderer. He's never killed anyone, despite feeling like it many times. He doesn't even know why he has a gun. Probably to feel safer. Only now, he realizes it can't protect him from everything. It can’t protect him from anything at all.

“So all this time you planned it? All this time?”

“No,” Simon says, carefully observing every Daniel's move. “You weren't the target at first, at all. We were aiming for something else, someone else. You just happened to...”

“I happened to catch your attention,” Daniel finishes. 

“I realized who you were and decided to just go with it.”

“So you... you never felt anything for me, right?”

God, he's becoming pathetic.

“I'm sorry.”

Daniel blinks like he wants to hold back tears, but the tears aren’t coming. So he starts laughing instead. He is still laughing when the door bursts open and four policemen run in. He drops the gun before they can tell him to do it. As reluctant as he is to admit it, Simon was right about this. He can at least hope he’ll leave prison this way.

One of the policemen looks worriedly at Simon and pulls him up to his feet.

“You alright?” he asks.

Simon nods, leaning into him maybe a bit more than one would lean into their colleague, and wipes the blood off his broken lip.

“Yeah, I'm fine.”

The policeman takes a step to Daniel.

“Daniel Agger, I am arresting you on suspicion of art trafficking and tax evasion,” he says in an irritatingly contented voice and closes the metal handcuffs around Daniel’s wrists.

It takes Daniel a little time to connect the dots, but then he recognizes him and can't help chuckling.

“Hi, Christian!”

*

An elderly man with white hair stands in the door of his office when they bring Daniel in.  _M. Olsen_ , the plaque reads.

“Well done,” he says cheerfully, like they’re obedient dogs who just fetched the ball back. That’s exactly how Daniel feels. Like a dog’s toy.

The man looks at Simon and shakes his head slightly. 

“Next time try to do it without such stunts, Kjær.”

“Yes, sir,” Simon smiles a bit too cheekily, like he knows he will do the same thing again and get away with it.

He doesn’t spare Daniel a glance and Daniel doesn’t know if it actually makes things better.

*

The final time Daniel sees Simon is when he’s leaving the interrogation room after putting in long hours.

It's surreal to see him there, hair pulled back in a short ponytail, wearing the uniform that makes him look cold and distant. Daniel feels the urge to bite, to punch, to try to have the last word in a fight he’s already lost.

“You were better as a whore, as a cop you're rubbish,” he spits out.

  
There is not even a hint of a blush on Simon’s cheeks when he responds, “I take that a compliment.”

Then Simon turns to leave, flashing Daniel a strange smile he can’t translate because Daniel no longer knows this man. 

He never knew him.

 

 


End file.
